The Aftermath
by Enbyfriend98
Summary: WARNING: SPOILERS, TRIGGERS, AND FEELS John is left to pick up the pieces after Sherlock's suicide and it is two years later Rated K because it's pretty safe, just angsty.


A short, squat blonde man sat on a dark green patch of grass; a small smile graced his lips. He was sitting in a large expanse of land that surrounded him for miles. An iron-wrought fence bordered the acres of land. The scenery was beautiful, morbidly so. Elegantly decorated granite rocks dotted the lush green of the field; some sparkled with youth and others were simply dull slabs of cold rock, long eroded by time and weather. The man sat cross-legged in front of a shining one. The rock, however, was beginning to lose its glory. The flecked greys and blacks of the granite were starting to dull and fade. The words carved into it years ago were still distinguishable, John had made sure they stayed that way, but they were softening and were no longer as rigid. There were small scratches from the weather and from animals. The back of the granite rock was painted in yellow with the word "FRAUD" screaming at the world.

John was a handsome man, but not so by his looks. He was ordinary, very plain in appearance and apparel. His face was round, yet firm. It had seen the war in Afghanistan; it was a face of a soldier. Deep wrinkled creased his face in places, not making him seem old, only experienced. His eyes were a dark blue, like the sky at twilight. Anyone who didn't know John would see only the happiness in his eyes. Those who did know him, though… They saw the pain. His eyes no longer sparkled and glowed as they once had; an important luster had disappeared.

His blonde hair was short and slightly messy from the wind which tore at people and snuck under their clothing. His clothes were very mundane: normal blue jean trousers and a knitted cardigan. Over top, he had a tan, heavy jacket to protect him from the biting cold. They only thing that didn't speak 'John' were the black leather gloves on his hands. Those belonged to Sherlock.

John was a kind-hearted man that had once been a military doctor. He longer walked with the psychosomatic limp he had picked up after being shot in the war, not since he had met Sherlock. He worked hard to help and to heal people; he wanted to stop another's pain. Today, however, John was embracing his own.

John sat in front of Sherlock's tombstone; the small smile began to slip off his face as tears ran down his cheeks. Two years had passed since the death of Sherlock, two long years for John. The man's voice shook as he spoke out loud to the stone. "Two years, Sherlock. I begged you to-to not," he took a deep, raggedy breath. His blue eyes were rimmed with red and his coat was starting to get damp from his tears.

"I begged you to not be… dead," John choked out the last word before he began to sob. He hung his head and his entire body trembled with despair. He sat that way for a few moments, releasing the pain of his soul. When John was finally able to recompose himself, he chuckled sadly. "Sherlock, I c-came here to deliver good news and," John coughed slightly, "and I ended up bringing a sour mood." He laughed again and removed his gloves, wiping his eyes dry.

"I'm getting married tomorrow. I. She's the woman I had been looking for, Sherlock," John looked up at the grey sky and shivered. "She's the woman, but not the one. Not the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. That's you, Sherlock. Even if we were nothing but friends, I wanted to spend my life with you."

"But, I need to move on. So, I came here to tell you, to ask that you… If you're still alive, if you gave me that one last miracle. If you stopped being dead, Sherlock, I want you to be my best man. Just show up. Come to the wedding and be my best man," John paused and glanced at the tombstone.

"I miss you, Sherlock. I miss everything about you. I miss your outbursts, I miss finding things in the fridge, and I miss your violin. I miss the flat and I miss you. I miss you so, so much and I am so, so very sorry I never saw your pain." Tears began to streak down Watson's face, painting his cheeks. "I shouldn't have let you leave by yourself; I should have gone with you. I didn't know, Sherlock, I DIDN'T KNOW!" John's voice cracked again. "God, Sherlock, why? Why couldn't you tell me anything?" His head dropped again as he wailed.

John poured himself out until his head hurt, until Mary crouched down beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. John leaned into his bride and sniffed. When Mary had found John almost two years ago, he had been broken. She tended to him as she would and infant' she wrapped him in a blanket to keep him warm and safe from his inner monsters. Mary had been his shoulder to cry on in the nights the death of his friend plagued his dreams. His shoulder has he mourned the loss of the man he came to love and to have known as Sherlock Holmes.

"I wish he were here, Mary," John's voice was thick and wet.

"He is, John, he always is." John remained silent, letting her words encase him with their comforting warmth. He struggled to stand and Mary led him back to the car. He crawled into the vehicle, unaware of the tall man in the dark overcoat.

The man's collar was pulled up to hide his self. The man's dark curls were messy from the wind and his grey eyes shone with tears yet to fall. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered at the vanishing car. He turned on his heels in the direction of his old flat. _Time to get ready for the wedding. I am the best man after all._


End file.
